Special
by iridescentZEN
Summary: Things are different here. Willow doesn't mind at all. AU.


Special

By iridescentZEN

Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. Title is from track 05 on Garbage Version 2.0 Note: Implied Willow/Rack. Dark Tara.

* * *

Willow is not sure how she got here. One minute she was on the astral plane deep in the Himalayas, the next - here. There is a stabbing pain deep in her belly, familiar but magnified. The pain of magic withdrawal. Bad, very bad magic withdrawal. She has never felt it like this before. When she tried to destroy the world the coven had taken her magic from her, the same equally painful way she had taken it from Giles. Not to help her, they said, but because it would have killed her. No one had ever taken a dose like she had and survived the aftermath.

A moan escapes her lips against her will. Her head is pounding in time with her heart and she is both hot and cold at the same time. There is a hand on her naked back, softly stroking, and the over powering scent of marijuana and other less appealing odors, clue her in to where she is. Rack's den. Impossible, she tells herself. Impossible because he's dead. She killed him. So, impossible. Only not, because when she turns to look at the owner of the hand, it's him in all his decadent glory.

Willow always viewed him as a casino. She only visited because she wanted to spend a little and win big. Only the games were fixed and she was left broken and robbed of something she couldn't name. And what happened in Vegas definitely stayed in Vegas.

Willow remembers not wanting to think of Rack or his lips while her girlfriend showered her with make-up kisses, not wanting to see the bruise on her soul through the caked foundation of her shell. The sweetness of Tara's lips against her own corrupted with the taste of a manly phantom kiss, unwanted but returned nonetheless because there was the promise of more magic at the tip of his tongue softly teasing her own.

\\ Did you kill that guy?

It's an improvement. Believe me. /

Rack smiles when she makes eye contact. She's sure he registers her fear and confusion. "Bad trip?" he drawls out, his hand still gently stroking her flesh, his eyes scrutinizing instead of concerned.

Willow scrambles to get up when she realizes that not only is she in his den, she's also in his bed. In his bed. _Oh god, she's in his bed_. She trips over twisted blankets, pulling one up to cover herself as she lands on a pile of decorative pillows.

Rack chuckles. The sound would be soothing if she didn't know any better. "Bad trip," he confirms to himself with a nod of his head.

How did she end up here? Did she screw something up on the astral plane? Why do her spells always go wonky? Why is she letting him rub the back of her neck in a soothing manner? She moves to avoid his touch, not missing how he doesn't miss her flinch. Rack's eyes meet hers and for an instant it's a staring contest. He blinks and moves closer. "Your aura's all ..." he waves his fingers around her, "cracked."

"I ... um. I ... that is ..." she doesn't know what to say.

"You're not from here, are you? Not my Willow."

His Willow. It takes a moment to register that. The idea is truly revolting. She can taste bile in the back of her throat at the thought. In her reality they had one night. One night and the night she killed him. One night of her as the willing victim, one night of him offering himself to her completely for the ultimate magic high, only to have his life sucked right out of him.

The night she was "The Other Vampire" when she sucked his life essence from his body and left him dead.

"Where are my clothes?" Willow asks, because clothes would be good. Being not naked would be very good.

Rack throws them at her face, a belt buckle just narrowly missing her eye. As quickly as she can she puts on her clothes. A pair of jeans, an old black bra and a plain black v-neck peasant blouse. The only thing on her mind is getting out of there as quickly as possible.

"You'll be back," Rack tells her. "You might go to her, but you always come back."

Willow's walking down a dark alleyway ruminating on what could have possibly sent her here when she feels her flesh break out in goose bumps. There's a cloaked magic den nearby. She can feel it. Not Rack's, but just as powerful. Maybe more. She shouldn't go in. She should stay away. Totally stay away. Only this body, this version of herself that she's trapped in is in painful withdrawal mode, and she can't take it from Rack. Can't take his magic or his body inside of her again. Never again.

It was bad enough the first time.

The first person she sees after going through the invisible portal is Amy Madison. If that's not enough to send her reeling back, the woman behind her is.

It's Tara. In a long, flowing royal purple skirt and a black sweater. She has a chunk of her grandmother's rose quartz hanging just above her breasts by leather twine. It glows like white under a black light, and the power radiating from it and from Tara herself has Willow's skin crawling.

"Willow? Little Willow Rosen ... berg?" Amy asks. "Here again? You know, I'm still mad about all the weight you helped Amy put on coming over our house and porking down on brownies and cookies. It took me a year to take that weight off!"

Willow's not listening. She only has eyes for a walking, talking ghost. For her dead girlfriend, alive in this reality, with eyes colder than ice.

"Is Rack not satisfying you today?" Tara asks in a condescending tone.

\\ The spray of living blood rapidly cooling against Willow's skin. On her chest, arms, across her face. When she licked her lips she could taste it. Salty bitter copper. The insides of Tara.

A puzzled look on a Tara's face. "Your shirt."

The universe comes crashing down. Tara's light, Willow's sun, collapsing upon itself.

A supernova. /

Willow can feel hot tears splashing down her face. She drops to her knees, and stares up reverently. It doesn't matter what Tara is saying. It just matters that she's saying it. Her voice envelopes her, makes her heart beat furiously and with the pleasure there's the pain. It shoots up her arm. There's a tightness across her chest because she can't believe this is real, that she's been given a second chance. "T-Tara?"

Tara's oblivious to the light of joy in Willow's eyes. She fans her hand across Willow's chest, some of Rack's burn visible due to a V-Neck shirt. Willow jerks violently at the touch, then wholly leans into it.

Tara chortles. A sound Willow doesn't think she's ever heard her make before. "In my experience, he's never been very good." There's a smile again. Willow remembers that smile. It's a naming constellations smile. "At magic that is. I wouldn't know about anything else. Unlike you."

"Tara," Willow says again, disbelief in her voice. "God, Tara." Willow raises her hand to touch her lover, her life, but her fingers curl and she drops her hand when she remembers that things are different here. "Baby, God. There was ... blood and I-I-I couldn't save you. I tried. I tried!"

That beautiful smile is twisted, then completely erased by the passion in Willow's voice. Tara steps back, a scowl forming. Willow remembers seeing that scowl on Tara's face when she couldn't figure something out, when Willow talked about magic or did spells to close the curtains or wash her hair. When Tara told her, "You're using too much magic."

"Think she's already tapped a vein, Tara," Willow hears Amy's voice, but knows her friend isn't in there.

"Shut up, Cat," Tara snaps, taking a step back from the emotion she's seeing and hearing from Willow.

Catherine Madison. Amy never got switched back with her mom here, Willow thinks. That's sad.

Catherine is all over Tara in a cautious sort of way. Like playing with a mountain lion raised as a pet. It might purr beneath the stroke of your hand but you'll always wonder if it might bite it off some day.

Are they girlfriends? she wonders, because Mrs. Madison wearing Amy's face seems a little too friendly and Willow takes it all in, background noise to the boom of Tara's voice in her ears.

"I'll give you what you want, Willow. I'll give it all to you, baby, and maybe some day you won't go back to him."

"Hey!" an indignant Mrs. Madison chimes in, offended. "What do you mean by that?"

Tara doesn't answer. Instead, she lets her magic flare, tasting of apples and cinnamon and Willow can taste the tang of rot, of forces not made to be messed with, and doesn't know how it's possible that a Tara like this exists in any reality. It's okay though. More than okay, because she doesn't care. Tara is alive here and that's all that matters. Willow will stay here, an imposter in her own skin, unlike Mrs. Madison who's an imposter in her daughter's.

Tara's eyes are as black as tar. There's a purple halo around her pupils that's as pretty as sunlight reflected off of a puddle of oil. It should frighten Willow. Should make her want to turn away, get away from her touch, but instead she's aroused by it. It's so wrong. So very wrong. So very not her Tara. Only it is Tara. This dimension's Tara where there is a different Willow that's paired with her. One whose only true love seems to be the magics and the feeling that she gets when she's up on them.

The flood of Tara's magic is overwhelming. White hot heat, her hand searing through Willow's soul, kindling warmth in the pit of her stomach, between her legs. The root of their relationship in the palm of Tara's hand, pouring out her fingertips. Love. Magic. Sex magic. Magic, sex and love. If this is a dream Willow doesn't want to wake up. Doesn't want to find herself beside Kennedy whose body is all wrong, hard and bony instead of soft and lush. Dark brown hair instead of honey blonde, and who scoffs at the rituals Willow has to do to keep her magic under control. Fairy tale crap. Sure.

If her life is a fairy tale, then where is her happily ever after?

Willow is surrounded by Tara. She is a picture perfectly clear while everything else around her is out of focus. The feedback loop begins. Magic to magic, self to self. Tara's getting bits of who she is, while Willow gets to know a little more about this Tara.

\\ Tara in an attic, stumbling upon her grandmother's rose quartz. Beneath it there is a book on spells. A little further in the box there's another book, "The Darkest Magick." /

\\ Tara at UC Sunnydale attending a Wiccan group. Catherine Madison as Amy staring at her from where she sits, Tara with her head down, her eyes not at all shy, but calculating. The stutter non-existent. This Tara is confident and proud. This Tara has learned to use magic to make things easier in her life.

This is a Tara that knows Amy Madison is not who she says she is. That her aura is all fractured and twisted, and she kind of digs her more for it. Is kind of attracted to it. Who hasn't thought of what their life might be like if they were actually someone else? About how much better their life would be as a Hollywood starlet with a body to die for and a couple of million dollars sitting in the bank/

\\ Tara's "family" returns to take her home. Tara uses a spell to make them forget she even exists.

"Why are we here?" her father asks. "Donnie, why are we here?" His eyes find Tara's. "Miss, do you know why we're here?"

"No, Sir. I have no idea," she answers, feeling more free than she ever has in her entire life. /

\\ Catherine slowly teaching even darker spells. Days and nights spent in Rack's den, with other warlocks, learning the tools of the trade. Learning how to suck the energy out of others for personal gain. For pleasure. /

\\ A fractured image of Willow sitting on Rack's lap, eyes closed, the corners of her mouth curled up in the pleased cheshire grin of a junkie.

The feeling of disgust at the sight. /

\\ There is Willow kneeling on the floor of Tara's den, much like she is now except with less clothes. There is Tara's hand, warm and inviting on her chest. It showers Willow with pleasure that feels like it's never ending. As much as there are no feelings between them there is something. Something neither one if them will admit to in this screwed up world they live in. This Willow knows that while Tara might not love her, Tara loves that Rack isn't enough for her. That Willow needs Tara's magic because Rack's alone is no longer satisfying.

There is Catherine Madison with a pout behind her. She wields the bitter jealousy of the scorned lover in the power of her hand, painfully cold against Willow's naked back. With a flare of hostile green sparks of magic, Willow is double dosed. Double penetration, she thinks. Tara's dose of ecstasy from the front and Catherine's dose of raw hurt from the back.

Willow screams in pain, blood gushing from her nose. Cat smiles while Tara breaks the connection and steps away, more furious for the ruined buzz than the pain Catherine's causing Willow. /

Then it's Tara's turn to get those moments ingrained in Willow's soul.

\\ Two young women trapped in a laundry room, mute demons trying to get in. The focus of one's power not strong enough.

Willow and Tara's hands entwined. A soda machine moved with the force of their will, with their combined magic, effectively saving themselves by blocking the door.

There is a spark, a moment where energies meld and recognize something whole and unique and theirs. /

\\ There are tears, a choice, and a blown out candle. A night of love making so intense they cry. No magic, just them. Just Willow and just Tara. No conversation about an ex-boyfriend werewolf. Neither thinking about the past, only the future.

So perfect that Willow never wanted it to be any other way. /

\\ Tara's birthday, and Willow tells her how strong she is, how much she loves her. They float in the air on the dance floor, content in one another's arms. /

\\ There is Tara with broken hand and broken mind until Willow makes her whole again, makes her Tara again. /

\\ A twig of lethe's bramble and a whispered word. /

\\ Boxes and tears. Kisses, gunshots and blood. /

Tara leans in, her mouth to Willow's ear and whispers, "I knew you weren't you, anyway." She gives a light laugh. "She never looked at me like she loved me."

"I will," Willow says. "I can, I will. I will," she promises in a rambling chant but she's pretty sure it's about as effective as a horn honk during high traffic. As if that will motivate other drivers to move when they have no where to go.

Willow hopes that Tara will drain her dry. Suck out her essence like Willow did to Rack, nearly did to Giles. There's not much to go back to. An on the rocks relationship with a pushy young woman she only sort of likes. Friends scattered around the globe looking for strangers. Willow wouldn't be missing much. So yeah, she wouldn't mind dying like this by Tara's hand, drowning in Tara's magic.

It would only be fair if Willow could die in Tara's arms and return the favor.

Overcome with the feeling of bliss, nausea abating, warmth spreading through the pit of her stomach to the rest of her, Willow surrenders to the ebb and flow of familiarity in this strange, strange land. She keels over onto the carpeted floor with a thud, black eyes wide open and hypnotized with magic, hoping that this never ends, that she never wakes up.

"Who's the Strawberry?" Willow hears someone who sounds suspiciously like Giles ask. She'd turn her head to look but she can't seem to get the energy. Can't even close her mouth or her eyes. It feels like she's on a roller coaster about to derail, about to fly off its track to land in a million pieces on the ground below. A ghastly mosaic made up of plastic and metal, seat cushions and blood.

If the feeling is right, is true, then she'll just be a piece of the wreckage.

Tara answers, her voice lacking the warmth and love that Willow remembers, "Nobody special."

End.


End file.
